


Every Song That I Ever Loved

by Jeanisnotawinchester (theanonymousj)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Abusive Parents, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drinking, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Misgendering, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transgender, Underage Drinking, bott fam is chill af, but anyway, i have had so many issues uploading this, i'll add more tags if needed, idk - Freeform, kirstein fam has no chill, perfect boyfriend marco, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:53:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4232958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theanonymousj/pseuds/Jeanisnotawinchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ftm Jean, perfect boyfriend Marco, and storyline inspired by Fall Out Boy songs... idk, it is self indulgent trash. Please check the tags for warnings: this is not the worst fic ever written, but people could find it upsetting. Thanks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Underneath The Purple Skies

Christa was already drunk. Really, really drunk. She’d always been known as the lightweight of the group – but fortunately she was a really adorable drunk. Ymir grabbed her, pulling her back onto her lap before she flew out of Marco’s convertible, kissing her roughly. Reiner leaned through the front two seats, turning up the music to full blast and winking suggestively at Jolie as Annie dragged him backwards. He was also drunk – not that you’d guess Reiner was really the lightweight type.

“It’s not fair on me;” he shouted over the music at no one in particular, “my boyfriend is in the other car!” Marco laughed at him in the rear-view mirror, “That’s because there’s no way we could fit your massive shoulders and your colossal beau into this tiny thing!” He patted the dashboard lovingly, but his words were lost on Reiner. Christa clearly thought he was hilarious, however, and kicked the back of Jolie’s seat hard to confirm this. Jolie didn’t mind, at all, slamming her back into the seat as a response – but Marco wasn’t an idiot. He could see Jolie was off about something. He didn’t want to ask, especially while Ymir and Annie were within ear shot and stone cold sober. Those two only ever antagonised the situation.

They pulled up at their regular bar; parking two spots down from Eren’s four by four. Ymir more or less threw her tiny girlfriend out of the convertible closely followed by Annie and an obviously tipsy Reiner, who stumbled over into Bertholt’s arms. Bertholt caught him and teased him for already getting drunk – Reiner’s response was a punch that would have killed anyone else, but seemed pretty affectionate as it hit Bertholt square in the chest. Marco smiled encouragingly at Jolie and slid out of the car, pushing the keys deep into his pocket. Jolie mirrored him, dusting off her peach sundress as she stood up. The brunet watched the way the ocean breeze teased her brass colored hair, and the sunset lit up her face in orange and pink steaks. He was so lucky to have her.

The bar was wild and dark and sweaty. The group stayed more or less together, until Eren got into a fight with a guy twice his size and Mikasa had to drag him outside and talk some sense back into him. By the time they got back in, Annie was dancing on the bar with Ymir and Christa, Armin was making out with someone he’d never met before in a dark corner and Reiner and Bertholt were nowhere to be seen. Mikasa, dragging a still angry Eren through the crowd around them, managed to find the remainders of the group still more or less together and fairly sober. Marco joined them at the same time, carefully holding two lemonades out of the way of the endless gyrating hips and aggressive elbows. “Where’s Jolie?” he shouted over the blaring music, eyes searching the mass of people around them. Connie shrugged and generally indicated the exit. Panicked, Marco thrust the drinks into the smaller boy’s hands and pushed for the exit. Jolie wasn’t with the smokers out front, nor was she in either of the cars. Marco jogged up and down the entire length of the beach before spotting her on the dimly lit pier.

The stars glittered brightly overhead, uninterrupted by the gentle waves beneath them. Jolie’s silhouette was created only by the small lamps that hung off the pier rails, illuminating her pale dress, her tiny waist, her perfect hair. ‘She always looks so beautiful,’ mused Marco, despite his worries, ‘no one could ever be as beautiful as her.’ He approached quietly, but loud enough not to startle. Her shoulders seemed relaxed, but as he walked up beside her, he could see how white her knuckles were as she gripped the rail with her ringed fingers, and the way her bottom lip was clenched in her bite.

“Jolie?” Her breath rattled and her eyes filled with tears. She didn’t cry. “Jolie, you’ve been off all day. Tell me what’s wrong, baby girl?” She let out a loud sob, clamping her left hand to her mouth to hold herself together. Marco firmly took a hold of her shoulders, and pulled her into his chest, running one hand through her hair and using the other to hold her waist. She cried for a bit, her tears soaking Marco’s thin t-shirt through to his chest. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then pushed her back so he could see her face. “Jolie, talk to me,” he urged, brushing a strand of her brass colored hair behind her ear, “What’s going on princess?”

Whatever she said was so quick and quiet it was totally lost on Marco’s ears. He used one hand to cup her face, “What did you say, baby girl?” Jolie swallowed loudly, her soft brown eyes failing to meet his. Her voice was tiny, a whisper “I’m not a girl Marco.”

Marco frowned, then widened his eyes, and frowned again. “What are you saying Jolie?”

This time Jolie’s voice was louder, the statement more of a conviction, “I’m not a girl. I’m a boy.”

Marco leant down and kissed Jolie without thinking twice, arms tightening around his lover’s body, fingers gripping the dress. Eventually he stopped for air, taking a good look at Jolie’s shocked face; “Okay. Okay, pretty boy.”

Jolie was silent, stunned, unbelieving. “Okay?” he whispered, words wet and heavy, “it’s okay?” Marco laughed, a goofy but sincere smile crossing his face, “Of course it’s okay. It’s better than okay.” The shorter boy nodded, gulping loudly and looking anywhere but Marco’s face “but I’m not your princess anymore.” Marco’s hands were soothing, gentle as they pulled Jolie toward him again. His gaze drifted towards the billions of stars; stars that were shining just for them. “Of course you’re not. You never were, and that’s my mistake. You’re my prince charming.” He kissed Jolie’s forehead again, then his lips, “I love you Jolie Kirstein. I love you no matter what.”


	2. And You Can Get What You Want But It's Never Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eh.

Jean walked briskly, navigating the endless winding streets with expertise that only came from years of experience. He tugged at the edge of his school skirt, wishing he’d worn tights rather than socks that morning. October was always unexpectedly cold. Every house he passed look so warm and welcoming compared to the unforgiving, bitter air that nipped at his bare thighs and fingers.

He arrived on the porch, fumbling for far too long in the slightly undersized blazer for his house keys. The door gave way and he hurried through, embracing the heat radiating from lounge to his left and the kitchen dead ahead. The kitchen was first port of call; he hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. “Mum? Dad? I’m home.”

Shoes off, bag thrown haphazardly on the stairs, Jean burst into the kitchen. His mother was cleaning up dishes in the sink, his father was sat at the table reading something on a laptop. Jean’s laptop.

“Uh, dad, why do you have my laptop?”

His mother dropped a plate in the sink, but she picked it up and carried on scrubbing.

“Dad?”

“Sit down.”

Jean sat, watching his father turn and look pointedly at him.

“Jolie, who is Jean?”

Shit _. Shit._

“I don’t know anyone called Jean.”

“I’m reading a conversation you had with Marco Bodt yesterday on your Facebook, and he seems to think he’s talking to ‘Jean.’”

Jean’s father was relentless. He’d made up his mind already.

“It’s just a joke or something.”

“A joke?” Jean’s father stood up, unbuckling the belt around his waist, “So is all this research about hormone injections and surgery a joke as well?”

Jean shut his eyes tightly, his fists bunching up the edges of his skirt. He braced for the impact.

“Answer me, Jolie. Is all of this unnatural bullshit some sort of sick joke to you?”

Jean didn’t answer and his mum screamed as the belt smacked him loudly, leaving the left shoulder stinging.

“Don’t think your mother and I haven’t seen your diary too. You’re fucking sick, Jolie.”

The belt slapped him again, and he brought a hand up to his arm, hoping the pressure would stop the pain, “Please stop.”

The belt dropped from his father’s hands and he flipped Jean’s chair. The boy crashed into the floor, and quickly rolled onto his front to try and get up.

“You sicken me. You sicken me, Jolie. It’s unnatural. It’s ungodly. No daughter of mine would ever look at shit like this.” He picked up and chair and smashed across Jean’s back. Jean wailed.

His father knelt down beside him, grabbing him by the back of his cardigan and dragging him so close that he could smell the alcohol on his breath, “get the fuck out of my house, and don’t you dare come back until you decide you need help. Get out.”

Jean was left alone, whimpering on the floor of his kitchen. He reached into the blazer and called the first number he could think of.

“Hello?”

He sobbed. It was so late, it was a miracle anyone was awake.

“Hello? Who is this?”

Jean cried. For three whole minutes he cried, and the voice on the end of the phone comforted him, trying to coax out some information.

“It’s Jolie Kirstein, Mrs. Bodt.”

“Jolie? What’s going on? Where are you?”

“I – I – I’m at home. Please come and get me. Please.”

There was some muffled talking on the end of the phone before, “Jolie? Jolie, don’t go anywhere. Paul’s coming over, he’ll be there in ten. Just hold on sweetie, do you want me to stay on the line?”

“Umm…” Jean listened out, hearing his mother’s footsteps slowly approaching the kitchen, “I can’t – I can’t do that”

“Okay Jolie, I’ll dig out some bed sheets.”

The line went dead and Jean’s mother walked quietly into the kitchen. “You’ve given your father such a headache dear, maybe if you just apologise…” she pulled a chunk of dinner plate from the sink and slotted it into the draining rack. Jean struggled to all fours, his back smarting where the chair had broken on it.

“I’m not going to apologise,” he struggled to his feet.

His mother spun and slapped him, “How dare you defy your parents’ wishes!”

Jean ran to the door. Everything hurt and suddenly he was crying. He ran out of the front door and collapsed at the end of the driveway.

Minutes passed and a familiar blue car pulled up. Jean pealed himself off the floor and sat in the back.

“Thank you.”

Paul smiled at him in the rear view mirror, “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Tonight you can just sleep at ours. Carrie was wondering if you wanted to sleep in Marco’s room or not?”

He shrugged, “I don’t mind…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments appreciated, thanks for reading.
> 
> Also, so sorry about Marco's parents. I am so bad at coming up with names...


	3. You Know How Much better Off I Am

Jean didn’t say a word in the car, nor did he speak much when he reached the house. Carrie welcomed him inside warmly, offering a snack or a drink. Jean declined quietly. Marco was fast asleep in his room, and not wanting to wake him, Jean slept in the spare room. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling for hours. Sure he could stay here over the weekend, but did his father really mean to not come home? Would Marco want him to stay in his house? Would any of his family take him in? He fell into a fitful sleep.

Marco woke up a little later than usual, and jogged down the stairs. His mum had laid out breakfast for everyone, and he immediately sat down and shovelled some mushrooms onto his plate, “Is Gran coming over this morning, mum?” Carrie pottered through to the kitchen from the living room and sat down next to Marco, “No, she isn’t Marco.” He shrugged it off, a little disappointed as his Gran hadn’t visited in a few weeks, “then why are there four plates?”

Carrie didn’t answer for a second, and Marco looked up at her. She looked deadly serious – unusual for her. “Mum, what’s going on?”

“Jolie phoned us last night and wanted to be picked up. Your father drove to her house and got her. She was in tears and barely said a word.”

Marco froze, “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“She didn’t want to wake you, and I don’t think she really wanted to talk anyway. Marco, I think you have some idea what might have happened and I want you to tell me so we can help her.”

He thought about this quickly, deciding on a course of action. “I want to speak to her first.”

“She’s in the spare room.”

He stood up, abandoning his food, and walked briskly to the door between the lounge and the spare room, listening for a moment. He couldn’t hear anything, so he knocked.

Jean opened the door slowly, bags under his eyes and hair in a total mess. On recognising Marco, he opened the door a little more and retreated to the bed. Marco watched him sink into the sheets, closing the door – his mother must have leant him his pyjamas, which looked massive on Jean.

“Jean? Are you okay?”

He started crying, tears rolling down his face and dripping onto the sheets. Marco walked over, wrapping his arms around his body and squeezing him. “Talk to me Jean.”

Between sobs, Jean explained what had happened, and Marco listened without interrupting. He took in all the information, forcing himself not to react and contain his anger. He wasn’t often angry; this felt unusual. When Jean had finished, he though hard about what he should say.

“Stay here.”

“I- I can’t.”

“Mum and Dad won’t mind. Stay here.”

“Please, Marco-”

“They want to help you. And we can tell them about your name and your pronouns. They’ll be fine with it all. They really want to help.”

He kissed Jean’s temple gently, praying Jean would just listen to him and stop being so damn stubborn.

X

Three hours later, Marco and Jean emerged from the spare room and sat down with Paul and Carrie, carefully explaining how Jean was trans and how his parents had reacted.

One day later, Paul rang Jean’s parents to talk to them about what had happened. Jean’s mother refused to speak, and Jean’s father told him very clearly that Jean was no longer a part of the family.

One week later, Carrie took Jean for a haircut and Marco laughed and ran his fingers through what was left of Jean’s hair. Jean couldn’t stop staring at himself in the mirror for days.

Three weeks later, Marco handed Jean a package containing three binders. Jean cried and hugged him, unable to believe Marco had really spent his money on them. They spent hours locked in Marco’s room admiring how flat Jean was in them.

One year and six months later, Jean started taking hormones. His voice got a lot deeper, and Marco told him he looked more handsome every day.

Two years later, Jean and Marco were in different universities. They talked for an hour on Skype every night – much to the annoyance of Jean’s whiny roommate Eren.

Three years later, Jean went through surgery to remove his breasts, leaving him with two massive scars across his chest. Although a lot happier, it took him months to take his top off at the beach. Marco applauded him went his did, running his hands over the scars and telling him what a beautiful boy he was.

Five years later, Marco tapped the edge of his wine glass with a spoon and stood in front of a room packed with friends and family. His hands shook a bit, but he took a deep breath, “When we planned today, we understood that the tradition was that the groom made a wonderful speech about his beautiful bride. The awkward thing with that tradition is it doesn’t work when there is no bride involved- so without any further ado, I will simply have to give a speech on my truly beautiful husband.” Marco laughed off the tears with everyone else, refusing to cry before he’d even really started – but he was so lucky. He was so lucky to be married to Jean Bodt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this self indulgent, lazily written trash. 
> 
> Comments and kudos appreciated, milk and cookies for reading xx


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